


all i need is to get in between your sheets

by thunderylee



Category: Kis-My-Ft2 (Band)
Genre: Canon Universe, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2019-01-18 06:31:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12382803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderylee/pseuds/thunderylee
Summary: Kisumai’s new PV includes war paint, which leads Fujigaya to fight a war of his own.





	all i need is to get in between your sheets

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from agck. written for kink bingo (leather latex rubber) and cotton candy bingo (body/face paint).

“Are you allergic to latex?” the costume manager asks in a bored voice, and it’s a credit to how long Fujigaya has been in the business that he shakes his head and doesn’t ask questions.

And it’s a credit to how Kitayama has the mentality of someone half his age when he snorts and says his dick hasn’t fallen off from it yet. While Fujigaya rolls his eyes, the youngest two laugh like the perverts they are while Yokoo deliberately ignores them and Miyata turns a concerned eye to Tamamori, who’s making an uncomfortable face at the leather costumes.

“What kind of video is this?” Tamamori asks carefully.

Kitayama has his mouth open to answer, undoubtedly with something even more traumatizing, but Yokoo halts him with a sharp clearing of his throat. “We’re supposed to be warriors, Tama-chan. Warriors wear war paint, and war paint is made out of latex.”

“Warriors didn’t wear leather,” Nikaido points out, smirking like the smartass he is. “Except maybe in pornos.”

“You would know,” Yokoo shoots back, and Nikaido just shrugs.

“Let’s just get this over with so I might get some sleep tonight,” Fujigaya says pointedly. He has all intentions of putting on a smile, but his face just won’t move that way. His fifth drama in a row had just been decided, and while he’s happy to be working, he doesn’t remember what it’s like to have a day off.

They change into the costumes and Fujigaya watches his own unimpressed face in the mirror. At least he has a leather vest—Tamamori’s shirtless and Kitayama has some belted contraption that Fujigaya refuses to think of as a bondage harness, even though that’s exactly what it is. The others combined have a whole shirt and Fujigaya envies them a little. Just a little, though, until the hair stylist spikes up his hair and the makeup artist uses about ten layers of foundation to cover the bags under his eyes before attacking him with a dark kohl pencil.

Eyeliner makes everything better. Except Kitayama, who’d opted for peacock-feathered eyelashes this time and looks utterly ridiculous. That makes Fujigaya give a half a smile as he approaches the palette of body paint with skeptical eyes. Naturally they are glow-in-the-dark neon colors, seven of them. Fujigaya thinks it would look more realistic if they all used all seven colors, but that would probably be the only realistic part of this entire video and reluctantly he reaches for the pink jar.

“Where do we put it?” he asks tonelessly.

“Wherever you want,” the costume manager answers, followed by a jab of Senga’s elbow as Nikaido flashes a dirty grin. “Definitely on your face.”

Fujigaya’s on his third try, too tired to manage more than uneven lines on his cheeks when someone snatches the jar from him.

“Who knew you were so OCD,” Kitayama mutters. “Close your eyes and lean your head down.”

An unfavorable comment is on the tip of his tongue, but all Fujigaya says is, “Make it look like whiskers.”

“Whatever.”

Then there are fingers on his face, two at a time moving from just outside of his nose out toward his ear. They repeat the process twice more, then a single fingertip pushes firmly onto the tip of his nose.

“Are you having fun?” Fujigaya asks, only a little sarcastic.

“Actually, yes,” Kitayama replies. “I loved to fingerpaint as a kid. I used to do calligraphy that way, too.”

“Really?” Fujigaya blinks open his eyes, only a little interested as he takes in Kitayama in full costume. He looks even more ridiculous with red paint on his eyelids and Xs on his cheeks, scattered red slashes in between the leather straps that twine around his chest, and his hair is gelled all the way forward so that it sticks up in the back and hangs in his face.

“Yeah, you want a character or something?” From under those stupid feather eyelashes, Kitayama’s looking at him contemplatively, like Fujigaya were a canvas on which he was about to paint. “I could put one on your arm…or your throat.”

Fujigaya’s hand flies to his throat like it had actually been touched. “Wouldn’t that be too busy up here?” he asks, then he remembers who he’s talking to and shakes his head. “Just do one of my arms.”

“But then it won’t be symmetrical,” Kitayama protests, half taunting, then points over to where Tamamori’s still making that face as Miyata draws a yellow smiley face on his back. “Look, Tama-chan and I both have stripes on our arms, so you’ll look weird if you don’t have them, too.”

They didn’t warn him about this kind of peer pressure in elementary school, Fujigaya muses as he just sighs and leans his head back, exposing his throat. “Don’t you dare make it anything inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate is Nika drawing a down arrow on his belly,” Kitayama says, but his tone sounds proud. “The song is about fighting for love, so I’ll give you the character for love, okay? A little to your left since I’m right-handed.”

“Fine,” Fujigaya agrees, jumping at the first touch of Kitayama’s finger to his throat.

“Try to stay still. Every time you swallow, your throat moves.”

Kitayama drawing on his skin feels weird, but it’s over in no time and Kitayama goes on to add the stripes to Fujigaya’s biceps to match the other two frontmen, then stands back to scrutinize the entire ensemble. Raising his eyebrows, Fujigaya sincerely hopes that Kitayama doesn’t plan on painting him anywhere else, though all that’s really open is a wide strip of his chest down to his waist.

“You put your piercing back in,” Kitayama notes.

Fujigaya looks down at the silver barbell. “Thought it fit the theme.”

“You should put something around it,” Kitayama says, then kneels to get a closer look. Fujigaya catches Nikaido’s glance and rolls his eyes when he gets a thumbs up. “Like a sun or something. What do you think?”

“I don’t care,” Fujigaya replies, already bored with this. “Just do whatever you want.”

“Okay.”

This time Kitayama’s drawing has him squirming a little. People don’t usually touch him here, even girlfriends. Fujigaya had no idea he has such a sensitive belly until right now.

“If you two are done with your foreplay, we can get started,” Yokoo teases as he walks by, orange zigzags all over his face and arms.

“He wishes,” Kitayama responds, and Fujigaya doesn’t acknowledge either of them, turning to the mirror the second Kitayama’s finger leaves his skin.

“Not bad,” he assesses out loud. The character on his throat is small enough to stand on its own instead of blending in with his cat face; he memorizes its location so he can call attention to it during filming. The sun around his belly piercing actually looks cute and the whiskers are perfectly equal. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Kitayama replies, almost smiling as Fujigaya catches his eye over his shoulder. “It was fun.”

Fujigaya wouldn’t quite agree, but they’re called to places then and the next sixteen hours are spent dancing in the fake wilderness while battling each other. He’s ready to drop by the time they’re done, falling asleep before Kitayama on the car ride home, and the next thing he knows, his alarm is screeching at him and he’s waking up in his bed with a bit of a burn in the exact same places he’d been painted.

If he were more awake, he’d race to the bathroom in a mild panic, but as it is he just stumbles and sighs when he sees his reflection. He’d managed to make it to his bed completely exhausted, but he hadn’t washed off the paint. Praying that there won’t be any lingering hot-pink marks to cover up on the drama set, he scrubs at his face and miraculously gets it all off. The rest washes away in the shower, and he spends the rest of the morning on autopilot even after several cups of coffee.

Except that the burning doesn’t entirely go away. Fujigaya ignores it, refusing to admit that he might be allergic to latex after all (though, like Kitayama had tactlessly mentioned yesterday, he’s used latex condoms just fine). By lunchtime it’s a completely different kind of burning, not exactly painful but not pleasant either. At least feeling sharp tingles in three places on his body while trying to work isn’t very pleasant.

When the sun sets, another long night of work ahead of him, Fujigaya gives up fighting the memories that have been threatening to rush to the front of his mind all day. Fingers on him, applying pressure to his skin and continuously tracing the same patterns that feel like they’re engraved. Kitayama’s fingers. Fujigaya tries to force down the specifics, desperate to hold onto what little dignity he has left even in his own head, but it doesn’t work. Kitayama may as well be right here drawing on him over and over again for how his body is reacting, especially his belly.

He’s a professional, though, and thus makes it through the rest of the day with no one being any the wiser. Of course this means he’s ready to explode by the time they’re released, and thankfully nobody else decides to use the restroom at the studio before they leave. The last of Fujigaya’s shame spills over his fingers as he pulls himself off, fast and hard, seeing nothing but those goddamn peacock feathers behind his eyes and Kitayama’s smirk that he’s wanted to punch off of his face a number of times. And feeling Kitayama’s touch on his face, throat, and belly—always feeling his touch.

Fujigaya leans back against the closed stall door as he realizes with a frustrated sigh that this isn’t enough. He’s still impossibly hard and he already knows as he squeezes himself again that jerking off a second time won’t make it better. In fact, now that he’s given in to whatever this force is that had manipulated his sensory nerves and compelled his body to feel like Kitayama’s still drawing on him, the tingles have spread. Now it feels like he’s being touched _everywhere_ , his hand rushing to cover his mouth before his moan overcomes him, and his eyes pop open when he feels a throbbing deep inside him that he’s only felt during sex with other men.

“No, no, no,” he says out loud, hissing as he zips up his pants over his erection and falls out of the stall, staring at himself in the mirror. His face is flushed and while there’s no visible evidence of the body paint from last night, there’s a flash of glow where it had been like a crack of lightning. It has to be an optical illusion, but he stands there and watches it to see if it does it again.

It does, and now the tingling turns into stinging. It’s almost painful, and Fujigaya considers going to Kitayama to see if there’s anything they can to do reverse this…whatever it is. Kitayama would probably never let him live it down, but he’d take the endless teasing if it meant this would stop. However, thinking about Kitayama makes his body calm enough to function, just a light buzz remaining. It’s almost pleasant, especially when he goes on to imagine Kitayama touching him with all of his fingers and thumbs, running his hands all over Fujigaya’s skin, everywhere he can reach.

He gets off once more before he finally goes home, where he rubs off onto his sheets during the night like a teenager and still wakes up hard as a rock. He’s too tired to do it properly, just rolling onto his side to thrust into his hand and making a mental note to do his own laundry this week. Though it’s getting to the point where he almost goes to his mother about it, because this isn’t normal. Maybe he needs to see a doctor.

Actually admitting what is happening—and _why_ —is what keeps him silent, suffering through another day of filming with much more discomfort. The makeup artists actually have to powder him with a lighter shade to keep the flush off of his cheeks, which Fujigaya tells them is from getting sick. He’s not technically lying, because he sure as hell feels sick with the sporadic bursts of heat that accompany the never-ending tingling.

_Do you have any weird side effects from the war paint?_ he texts Yokoo near the end of the day’s filming.

The reply is instant:  _Come straight here after work_.

Fujigaya can’t get there fast enough. Yokoo takes one look at him and reaches for his arm, which Fujigaya expects to set the whole process off again, but it’s the exact opposite. It actually _hurts_ , like someone’s taking sandpaper to his skin, and Fujigaya shrugs it off before it becomes too much.

“What?” Yokoo asks with worried eyes. “What is it?”

Fujigaya tells him everything. Starting with how he’d woken up with the paint still on two days ago all the way up until right now. His face is burning by the time he’s done and he’s positive that it has nothing to do with his condition, which seems to be flaring up in sporadic bursts, mildly painful. Whatever it is that’s possessing him clearly doesn’t like Yokoo.

“I don’t know what to say,” Yokoo tells him. “I want to laugh at you, but you’re so pathetic.”

“Thanks,” Fujigaya says sarcastically. “You’re a real friend.”

“No, I mean…” Yokoo trails off, bringing his hand to his forehead. “This has really consumed you. I’ve never seen you this out of control, Taisuke. I’m almost ready to take you to the hospital.”

“I’m almost ready to go,” Fujigaya admits. “But I can’t explain this to a doctor. He’ll think I’m crazy.”

“ _I_ think you’re crazy,” Yokoo says bluntly, and Fujigaya frowns. “I can also see that you’re miserable, so let’s try to figure out what happened in case there’s a really obvious way to reverse it.”

“I left the paint on overnight,” Fujigaya says, counting off on one finger.

“Hiromitsu was the one who put the paint on you,” Yokoo adds, and Fujigaya’s breath hitches from a force that’s not his own. “Wow, Taisuke, you really have it bad for him.”

“I do _not_ ,” Fujigaya hisses, his cheeks practically on fire, and Yokoo has the decency to hide his smile. “This is his fault—he did this to me.”

“Nothing happened to the rest of us, and I can guarantee you that Hiromitsu fell asleep with the paint still on, too.” Yokoo sighs and gives Fujigaya an apologetic look. “The only difference is that he put it on you instead of you putting it on yourself.”

“Miyacchi put on Tama’s paint,” Fujigaya tries to argue, but the single eyebrow that lifts on Yokoo’s face tells him that it’s not the same because Miyata touches Tamamori all the time. More than the rest of them would care to know about. “Okay, fine, so I have this plague because he drew on me with cursed body paint. What do I do to stop it?”

“I’d hardly call wanting to have sex with someone a plague,” Yokoo says with a chuckle, “and I think you know what to do.”

“No,” Fujigaya says firmly, cringing as his body argues with him by turning up the heat. He feels like an oven. “No, no, _no_.”

“You’re sweating,” Yokoo says, then sends Fujigaya into jolts of pain as he grabs his arm. “Go over there before you blow up or something. You’re seriously starting to scare me.”

“I’m already scaring me!” Fujigaya exclaims, clinging to Yokoo’s shirt with both hands even if it makes everything hurt worse. “Make it stop, Watta.”

“I don’t think I can,” Yokoo tells him quietly, and Fujigaya knows that he’s right. “Look, it doesn’t have to mean anything. Just go over there, do whatever you _clearly_ want to do, and leave in the morning. You’re both adults, right?”

Fujigaya starts to respond with “one of us more than the other,” but then he remembers that he’s the one who is out of control of his own body right now and just falls silent. He knows what his options are, which basically boils down to either going to Kitayama or staying like this for as long as it takes to wear off. If it ever wears off. Right now he feels like he could actually _die_ if his body temperature goes any higher, and dying is possibly the only thing that’s worse than having sex with Kitayama.

“Fine,” Fujigaya reluctantly agrees, and Yokoo all but shoves him out the door. It’s dark and cold and Fujigaya feels infinitely better as his feet carry him to the train station, though it’s not without the rush of arousal that seems like it’s been unleashed now that the excruciating pain is gone.

Kitayama doesn’t answer on the first knock, but Fujigaya expected that and has his phone out to call him. It’s so quiet in the building that he can hear the faint sounds of a ringtone in the distance, and Fujigaya finds himself begging out loud for Kitayama to answer the phone, mostly so he doesn’t have to stand out in the hallway in the middle of the night and look like a tool.

“The fuck do you want,” is the answer, that deep, gruff voice going right into Fujigaya’s pants and pleasing his urges for a second.

“I’m outside your apartment, please let me in,” Fujigaya says quickly. “Don’t hang up on me, please. It’s serious.”

“What?” Kitayama asks, then grumbles the entire way to the door, his footsteps getting louder as the seconds pass. Finally Kitayama fumbles with the locks and wrenches open the door, glaring until he catches sight of Fujigaya. “The hell happened to you?”

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” Fujigaya replies, taking in Kitayama’s sleep-mused hair and heavy eyes and he actually has to stop himself from physically pouncing. “Please let me in.”

“Fuck, come in then,” Kitayama says, sounding pissed off and confused, and Fujigaya doesn’t bother waiting for him to get out of the way before barreling past him. Their shoulders brush and Fujigaya feels it all over his body, even inside him. Despite being mostly still asleep, Kitayama seems to notice something off and peers at Fujigaya. “You look like shit.”

“It’s your fault,” Fujigaya snaps, and the rest of his words come out in an uncontrollable gush. “You put that fucking paint on me and I can’t stop feeling it and it actually hurts except that when I think of you it feels better and don’t make me explain anymore.”

Kitayama blinks. “I have no idea what you just said.”

Huffing a sigh, Fujigaya waits approximately three seconds before lunging across the genkan and grabbing Kitayama by the face. Kitayama’s fatigue works out in his favor, because by the time he reacts to Fujigaya’s manhandling Fujigaya already has their lips pressed together, his altered hormones racing at the contact.

“Tai—” Kitayama starts, but Fujigaya won’t let him get a word in. Now that he’s actually with Kitayama, at least this close, he can’t physically stop. Kitayama’s hands grip his shoulders and it lights a whole new fire inside him, one that only intensifies when Kitayama musters up enough strength to push him away.

“What the actual fuck—”

“Please don’t,” Fujigaya gasps, beyond ashamed of his begging but unable to control it. “I’ve spent two days like this, thinking of nothing else. I honestly think I’m going to die unless you touch me. You’re the only one who can make it stop.”

“Fuck,” Kitayama says again, but this time it’s softer. “Did you take a pill or something?”

Fujigaya shakes his head, then almost melts at the way Kitayama’s fingers brush his jaw. “I told you, it was the paint. And you putting it on me. I don’t even know, just that I keep feeling you touching me and wanting more and I can’t do anything about it.”

Those fingers slide up into his hair and Fujigaya lets out a moan. Everything pauses and he opens his eyes, finding Kitayama’s most of the way open and staring at him is disbelief. Fujigaya’s body moves on its own, grabbing Kitayama around the waist and pulling their bodies flush together, his eyes rolling back into his head as he finally gets relief.

Kitayama makes a pained noise, more like he’s having a moral dilemma than that he actually hurts, and Fujigaya latches his mouth onto the other man’s neck in a last ditch effort to get him to give in.

“Okay,” Kitayama breathes, and Fujigaya’s body catches up before he does. “Okay.”

Then his mouth is back on Kitayama’s, which kisses back fervently and Fujigaya’s mind is instantly gone. He can’t get close enough, too many barriers between his body and Kitayama’s even as their tongues swirl together. His hands clutch onto Kitayama’s arms and he’s physically shaking, like his body doesn’t know what to do with all of these sensations bursting at once.

“Taisuke,” Kitayama whispers between kisses, suddenly energized enough to wrap his arms around Fujigaya and hold him close. “What do you need me to do?”

“Fuck me,” Fujigaya answers without hesitation, the words making his arousal soar even higher, and the low groan Kitayama emits goes straight inside him.

“I can do that.” Kitayama starts to pull away and Fujigaya follows him, unable to leave him completely as Kitayama blindly maneuvers them down the hallway and bumps into nearly everything on the way. “I can definitely do that.”

They reach Kitayama’s bedroom and suddenly Kitayama rocks against him, pushing an equally as hard erection against his own and Fujigaya narrowly resists tearing off both of their clothes. He settles for shoving Kitayama down onto his own bed instead, appreciating his shocked look as Fujigaya climbs on top of him and straddles his lap, grinding down as hard as he can. Kitayama’s expression is a mixture of surprise and arousal, but Fujigaya only looks at it for a few seconds before they’re kissing deeply and pulling at each other’s clothes.

Kitayama’s hands feel amazing on his body, the last of their clothes kicked off as Kitayama touches him all over his back and chest, pleasing the demon that brought him here. It’s nowhere near done yet, though, as their cocks bump and they both gasp into their kiss, Kitayama dropping to grope both cheeks of Fujigaya’s ass, inadvertently spreading him open.

“Yes,” Fujigaya whispers, encouraging him. “Please, Mitsu. Do it.”

“I’m not just going to do it,” Kitayama mutters. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Do _something_.” Now Fujigaya’s whining, which Kitayama seems to like judging by the way his cock twitches against Fujigaya’s. “Use your fingers. I really want to feel you there.”

“Fuck,” Kitayama says again, hips rolling up toward Fujigaya as he reaches for his nightstand, which is entirely too far away. “Hold on. Let me get something.”

“Hurry up,” Fujigaya tells him, taking the opportunity to catch his breath as Kitayama stretches to the side to get whatever he needs. His neck is completely exposed and Fujigaya presses his mouth to it again, his own fingers sliding along the flesh of Kitayama’s sides and quenching a bit of his thirst.

Kitayama groans as he throws a small tube and a condom packet on the bed next to them and returns to Fujigaya’s mouth, kissing him hard enough that _he_ could be the one having an adverse reaction. That’s just how he _is_ , Fujigaya realizes in a fluster, his tongue almost more demanding than Fujigaya’s even when fingers poke between his legs and everything becomes even _more_.

It’s the easiest anyone’s ever gotten him open, which is only a little embarrassing as Kitayama pushes in one finger after another with minimal resistance. His body welcomes the intrusion, squeezing tightly around it to the point where Kitayama’s groaning into his mouth, his hips snapping in preparation for feeling that around his cock, and Fujigaya’s more than ready for it after only a few seconds.

“Better?” Kitayama whispers in a harsh exhale of air, and Fujigaya notices that he’s calmed down considerably. The urgency is still there, the throbbing need inside him that’s not quite satisfied with just Kitayama’s fingers, but all of the pain has subsided. Fujigaya’s pushing back against the deep touch and cries out when Kitayama hits him where he wants it, clinging onto Kitayama’s shoulders as his arousal keeps building.

“Yeah, but,” Fujigaya starts, interrupting himself with a desperate gulp for air, and his entire body shivers when Kitayama drifts his other hand across Fujigaya’s belly to play with the piercing. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“You’re lucky I don’t like to wait,” Kitayama says as he pulls his fingers out, smirking a little at Fujigaya’s whine. “I rather enjoy hearing you beg for it like this.”

“Asshole,” Fujigaya grumbles, and Kitayama pauses as he reaches for the condom. “I didn’t ask for this, you know. _You_ did this to me. This is all your fault, so you need to be the one to fix it.”

“By doing what, Taisuke?” Kitayama prompts him, taking his sweet time opening the packet and rolling on the condom. “What do you want me to do to you again?”

“Fuck me already,” Fujigaya growls, the rest of his argument dissipating completely as Kitayama rubs the head of his cock against the inside of Fujigaya’s thighs in the epitome of teasing. “Put that in me and just lay there, okay? I’ll do all the work.”

“You better,” Kitayama tells him, then angles himself right into Fujigaya’s stretched hole, and the last thing Fujigaya sees is Kitayama’s eyes darkening as his own eyes fall shut and he leans back on his heels.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he mutters as Kitayama fills him, scratching every inch of the itch he’s had for two days. His muscles clench happily and Kitayama groans, giving a small thrust of his hips that has Fujigaya moaning because it feels so _good_.

“Move,” Kitayama hisses, and he doesn’t have to say it twice. Fujigaya moves the way he used to on stage, quickly building up speed and noise, his moans coming much louder than usual. “Oh, fuck, _Taisuke_.”

The way Kitayama says his name like that tugs at something else inside Fujigaya, something unrelated to sexual hormones or this fire that’s gradually being put out with each thrust of Kitayama inside him. He doesn’t understand it, but it feels nice and a strained “Mitsu” falls from his lips before he can stop it.

Hands grasp his hips and his skin burns again, but now it just intensifies his stimulation. Kitayama pushes him forward a bit, bending his knees to push up in contrast to Fujigaya’s actions, and he hits Fujigaya so deep that he falls right onto Kitayama’s chest, face pressed into his neck to muffle his vocals because now they’re approaching scream level.

“There you go,” Kitayama says into his ear, his own voice strangled and followed by moans that go straight to where they’re joined together. “Mm, you feel so good. Hot and tight and— _Taisuke_.”

All Fujigaya can do is cry out as Kitayama’s words seem to fuck him right along with his cock and Fujigaya’s body rocks back even faster. Kitayama retaliates and fucks Fujigaya so hard that he’s bouncing, Kitayama’s hands firm on his hips to hold him steady, and Fujigaya’s so close that his own hand shakes as he pries away one of Kitayama’s and wraps it around his cock.

“Ah,” Kitayama gasps as Fujigaya clamps down on him, jerking back and forth between the two extremes as Kitayama wastes no time pulling him off.

Orgasm hits Fujigaya so hard that it almost knocks him out, arms locked around Kitayama’s shoulders like that’s the only thing keeping him grounded as he comes over Kitayama’s fingers and finally, finally finds relief. It feels like the demon inside him is sucked out along with his release, leaving him completely limp and tingling in a way that has nothing to do with any evil forces.

“Do you want me to stop?” Kitayama asks, everything in his voice begging him to say no.

“No,” Fujigaya answers, and Kitayama thrusts up into him harder. It sends aftershocks coursing through Fujigaya’s entire nervous system as he mouths at Kitayama’s neck, feeling him tense even more beneath him.

Then he’s rolled over onto his back and now Kitayama’s face is in _his_ neck, mouth latched onto the exact same spot he’d drawn the character for love, and Fujigaya’s next aftershock is strong enough to take Kitayama with him. Kitayama groans deeply enough to vibrate Fujigaya’s body and make him shiver even more, snapping his hips twice more before falling still.

His mind now clear, Fujigaya is torn between being ashamed and enjoying his newfound peace, though he’s leaning toward the latter when he hears a soft snore and shoves Kitayama off of him. “You would fall asleep after that,” he mutters, taking a little joy in the way Kitayama winces when Fujigaya snaps off the condom and stumbles to the bathroom to clean up. He helps himself to Kitayama’s shower and feels much better when he returns, although his throat hurts from screaming and other parts are sore for obvious reasons.

Kitayama hasn’t moved, still curled up where Fujigaya had left him in the middle of the bed, completely naked and a bit flushed from their sex. Fujigaya crawls in next to him and shoves him over, fully intent on sleeping right here even if it will undoubtedly lead to an awkward morning and a conversation he’s not that sure he wants to have.

Which is why he’d snagged the bright red jar from the bathroom, because only Kitayama would swipe something like this from a PV shoot. Fujigaya takes his time painting Kitayama’s face, down his throat and all over his chest, smirking as he thinks about Kitayama clawing desperately at _him_ , because he sure as hell isn’t going to give that one any leverage over him.


End file.
